


Clockwork

by voguethranduil



Series: dirty pretty things [8]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Inspired by Poetry, Sad, Sad Ending, literally just angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9472298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voguethranduil/pseuds/voguethranduil
Summary: the next time youhave your coffee blackyou’ll taste the bitterstate he left you init will make you weepbut you’ll neverstop drinkingyou’d rather have thedarkest parts of himthan have nothing-rupi kaur





	

**Author's Note:**

> little different in the way i usually write. enjoy!

She’s like clockwork.

Every afternoon, she will come into the dingy little diner on her lunch break and order the same thing. Black coffee, no sugar, no cream. She will order a blueberry muffin but she won’t touch it. She will drink the coffee and wince at the bitter taste, but will continue to drink it until every drop is inside of her.

She’ll smile kindly at the elderly waitress, and the waitress will pretend to ignore the distant, numb look that the young woman holds in her eyes. She’ll leave a small tip and thank the waitress, heels clicking as she leaves to go back to her office job.

Every day, she does this. She’s done it every day, even when the man with scraped knuckles stopped coming with her.

The man that used to come with her, was a man that wore a heavy jacket in the middle of the Summer without complaints, one that had bruises blossom on his skin like flowers. He was a man that looked like he’d never seen a happy day. But when  _ she  _ met him there, he couldn’t hide the fond grin that took up his face.

He’d stand and pull her in by her wrist, pressing an almost chaste kiss to her lips before they sat down. Before he stopped meeting her there, she’d always order a latte and the same blueberry muffin. He’d always order just the black coffee, in which she’d grin and say,

“ _ I don’t understand how you can drink that, Frank. It’s so gross.”  _

He’d roll his eyes at her and take a piece of her muffin, and say,

_ “I’m an old man, sweetheart. Y’get used to it.” _

They’d do this every day. They’d make idle conversation and tangle their feet underneath the table, looking at each other like they’ve found what they’ve always been looking for. The waiters had grown used to them, looking forward to their presence every day, at noon.

Sometimes after the elderly waiters and waitresses went home and the younger, livelier waiters came for the night shift, the man and woman would come. They’d come with fresh, deep marks on their necks and she’d be wearing a shirt that belonged to him. Despite the lack of PDA, it was made quite obvious that she was his, as he was hers.

She’d order her latte and muffin, and he’d order his black coffee. Like clockwork.

But ever since he stopped meeting her, her fond and beautiful smile was replaced with a tight, pitiful smile. The elderly and young waiters noticed, and could only assume the obvious. Like taking a stab in the dark.

Tonight she comes in, this time with no marks on her neck, but with bags under her eyes and her sweats in substitute of her usual work clothes. She slides into her usual booth and the young waitress glides over with the black coffee and muffin almost two minutes later.

As the waitress pours the coffee, she hears the woman sniff. She flickers her gaze from the coffee pot to the woman, who’s wiping at her nose with her shirtsleeve. The waitress gulps. She wants to talk to her: she feels as if she knows what’s going on, being an outsider who’s been observing in the background.

“Do you- do you want to talk about it?” The waitress asks suddenly. There’s no other customers waiting for her.

The woman looks at the young waitress with bright red eyes, as if contemplating whether saying ‘yes’ is a good idea or not. But she just nods. Afterall, no one has been empathetic enough to listen.

The waitress slides in across from her, occupying the space the man had once sat in. It’s just another bitter reminder that he’s not coming back.

The silent is thick as the waitress watches her pick at her muffin. She still doesn't eat it. The waitress doesn't push for anything, letting her take her time before talking. She pours herself her own cup of coffee, making a face as she takes a sip. 

“Don't know how you can drink this stuff.” She jokes lightly, pushing the cup off to the side. 

“You get used to it,” the woman finally speaks, with a hollow laugh. “That's what he always said.” The small smile on her face slowly disintegrates, her fingers flicking off the muffin crumbs onto the table. 

“The man?” The waitress asks. “The one that used to come in with you?”

The woman nods, picking up her coffee and taking a sip. She doesn't wince this time. 

“ _Frank_ ,” she says carefully, as if saying his name as if he was in the area: listening, waiting. “Frank could drink that stuff all the time. He loves it.”

“Frank,” the waitress repeats slowly, swirling a spoon in her coffee. “He seemed like a good guy.”

“He still is, s’just- he just-” She struggles to find the words that could describe a man like Frank. “He didn't seem to think he was good. Especially not for me.”

The waitress sighs, and leans back in the booth. 

“One of those guys?” She states, as if she's known the struggle. “I used to have a boyfriend like that. Thought he was no good for me because he was ‘damaged goods,’ or whatever. At least that's what he said.”

This makes the woman laugh, because Frank wasn't an angsty teenager who occasionally smoked weed to seem edgy. No, Frank is a man who's lost his family and himself and takes lives. 

“Yeah, I guess you could say he's one of those guys.” A lie. He's not. 

They sit in silence for a couple minutes, and the waitress watches as she finishes off the black coffee without flinching. Just like he used to.

“Do you think he's coming back?” The waitress suddenly questions. 

The woman stands, rifling through her wallet, taking out some cash as she shakes her head.

“Probably not,” she answers, eyes becoming glassy with tears she’ll shed when she gets out on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. “At least not anytime soon.”

She throws a twenty on the table, more than enough for her coffee and muffin. The woman gives the waitress a sad smile, before stepping out into the cold New York air.

Despite the cold, bitter rival that's reality, the woman comes back every day at noon for her black coffee and muffin.

Like clockwork.


End file.
